Learn to Cry
by lye tea
Summary: Sharing was an unavoidable hurt. Stark/Lillynette


**A/N: **For bleach_contest on LiveJournal. Prompt was "dark."

* * *

**Learn to Cry**

He brought her to life as he severed his own.

Loneliness was cruelty apotheosized. Darker than hate, deeper than hell, loneliness killed with beautiful lethargy. And he –

_Had been alone for so long._

She was not what he expected. The scene, the stage, the entire culmination had gone askew, stumbling off. Memory bad, half absconded, he couldn't remember the finer details. Except, it had been empty and cold.

Harsh gasps and crouched low to the ground. She looked weak and pathetic – perfect. Unsteady and disoriented, she rose to her feet.

Starrk asked for her (and their) name.

"Lilynette."

He tossed her a tattered rag masquerading as clothing. Suspicious, she scrutinized it carefully but accepted.

Staring dead-forward, he began to walk east. Knew that she was right behind, gaining pace.

. . .

For years, perhaps centuries, they wandered the barren badlands of Hueco Mundo. The other hollows still avoided him (now them). But it wasn't so bad, not like before.

_At least we have each other_.

And together, they were: always alone yet not.

This was for the best.  
–_I know._

Because they shared a camaraderie (a kismet) unlike anyone else. Microcosmic, it chained them with a force that can't be imitated, can't be undone.

. . .

In the inky, damp caves at the far-thrown side of the southern plains, they collapsed to rest.

She curled up against him. Jabbing ribs with her sharp, little fingers, Lilynette silently ordered him to move over. He sighed – annoyed – but obeyed. She could be so ferocious with her demands.

Gently, he slid an arm under her and brought them closer (_together, forever_). She growled like a rabid kitten. Tucking her head under his chin, Starrk subdued both of them to sleep.

He knew (though she would never say) that she was afraid. Feared the night.

It was almost funny because here, in Hueco Mundo, there was only night.

_But she had him._

And that was enough. He will guarantee it.

. . .

Lilynette became more and more brazened. Alive, jittery, and ablaze, she ran circles around his head and drove him nearly mad. She had the feral energy of stars colliding. He was no match (couldn't catch up).

"C'mon, lazy-ass. _Get up_."

By splintering in two, she had drained all his vitality and might away. And so, she grew resilient while he dwindled down to listless disgust and ennui.

But when he kissed her, he stole some of her strength back.

_Starrk…what're you…what am I?_

What are we.

. . .

Aizen said that finding them was destiny. But Starrk knew it was nothing grander than a bleak twist of fate.

And whenever Aizen inspected them with a menacing hunger in his eye, Starrk always pulled her back before a second too late.

Lilynette liked to bite, and Aizen liked to bait.

. . .

She taught him a thousand tricks and games, more than any god ever could.

But she never taught him how to cry. She kept that for herself.

. . .

Crude and nimble, she fought with a vengeance he could never master.

Friend or foe, it mattered not to her. Because this – combat and destruction – was necessary (_what we do_) for survival. It was in their nature, Aizen explained. And it'd be foolish (suicidal) to waste such a magnificent gift.

"Truly, the two of ya are rare. So don' go off killin' yourselves prematurely, got it?"

Lilynette hissed at Ichimaru Gin, loathed that one the most.

Instinctively, Starrk held out an arm and blocked her from attaching him. Ichimaru was unpredictable, sleek and cunning like an adder feigning sleep. And she was too rash for her own good.

. . .

Lilynette took the last bit of light when she died. Left him alone to contend with the shadows. And now, it was his turn to fall. But there was no one left to try catching him.

No one watching, waiting.

Starrk thought he felt something wet on his cheek. Smelling vague of salt and bitter pine, it vanished faster than it appeared. Frantic, he brushed the nuisance away – nothing there. Stupid (she was right).

Espada didn't cry, didn't know how.

It must've been a piece of debris from the battle. A sliver of ash mixed with sweat.

Tilting his head back slightly (the pain seared through his skull), he looked up. The shinigami had already faded out. Snuffed, lingering behind only a trail of smoke. The world spun in fifty angles and a hundred degrees. His sight was failing him, and soon, he'd only see black. And then, in a few minutes, he would die.

And see her again.

And together again.


End file.
